


Intermediate Pattern

by poppetawoppet



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, Knitting, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, in which knitting patterns are actually secret code, mostly pg for one use of language, slight crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppetawoppet/pseuds/poppetawoppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Eliot/Quinn take up knitting.</p><p>Except maybe Eliot sort of cons Quinn into it, and their knitting group turns out to be a terrorist cell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intermediate Pattern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [k3nj1ph1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/k3nj1ph1/gifts).



> Ravelry is a real website and an awesome way to waste time looking at patterns I'll never knit. I have paid exorbitant money for yarn, and am unashamed. I have no idea if knitting is used as therapy after surgery, but I'm sure it is helpful with developing fine motor skills so… Also Quinn doesn't have a first name

**cast on**

_Somewhere in Eastern Europe_

Quinn cradles his hand to his chest and crouches in the shadows. He can barely keep his eyes open, and his mouth is so dry, he's not sure he'll even be able to form words again. He's been on the run for almost a week now, and it's a whisper of a rumor that's brought him here. And a favor owed.

He grins when he sees a van pull into the alleyway and disappear, and the words "Damn it, Hardison!" float across the street. He waits ten more minutes before walking across the street and knocking on the door. There's a five minute pause before the door opens.

"You're a surprisingly hard man to find Spencer," Quinn says, his voice as dry as his mouth.

"Quinn, you look like shit," Eliot says.

"Well, you know, business. I was actually hoping to call in that favor you owe me."

"In," Eliot says.

Quinn stumbles in the door, and lets Eliot guide him up the stairs.

"Shower or food first?" Eliot asks.

"Shower."

Quinn sits in the shower, because he knows he'll fall over if he stands. There's a bathrobe and some sweatpants on the toilet seat when he gets out, as well as a clean towel to wrap his hand in. He manages to dress himself, and shuffles out into the loft space that's set up as headquarters. Eliot's at the kitchen stove, and whatever he is stirring reminds Quinn he hasn't eaten in three days.

"It's just broth for now," Eliot says without turning around. "You don't look like you can handle anything else."

"You'd be right," Quinn says. "Where's the other two?"

Eliot pours some broth into a mug and sets it next to Quinn's good hand.

"Parker's on the roof, testing some rigging. Hardison is napping before we tie up the last of the loose ends here. What happened to the hand?"

"I had an argument that involved a nail gun and a former KGB agent."

"Ah. Needs better dressing than a clean hand towel."

"Probably surgery," Quinn says, "as there was also a knife, a boot, and a hammer also applied to said hand."

Eliot lifts his eyebrows. "Fuck. Look, there's a guy. Dr. Johns. He's with the Cleveland Clinic. He fixed up my hand after an incident with a door and a SAS agent. I can give you his number."

"Clean me up, feed me, get me out of the country and find me a doctor? I suppose I'll owe you a favor then," Quinn says.

Eliot shakes his head, "Trust me, after therapy with Dr. Johns, I think we'll be even."

Quinn tilts his head in question, but Eliot doesn't respond. Quinn sips his broth and wonders exactly what that means.

**garter stitch**

_Somewhere outside Portland, one year later, May_

Eliot looks at the number on his phone, and lets it ring for a minute longer before picking up.

"I hate you."

Eliot grins. "'Hello, Eliot, how are you?' I'm doing fine, Quinn, how are you?"

"You still owe me," Quinn says.

"Is it because I gave you Dr. Johns' information, or because I sent you that link to Ravelry six months later?"

"Yes. Furthermore, you also sent me flyers for various fiber festivals and I now have a fifty dollar skein of yarn in my hands and I can barely follow a pattern."

"If you'd like, you could come to my knitting group and they could give you pointers," Eliot says.

There's a growl of frustration on the other line, and Eliot realizes that this is the exact reason Hardison riles him up. There's a sort of secret joy to it.

"All right Spencer, give me a time and place and I'll be there."

Eliot smiles and relays the information.

**knit two together**

_Outside Portland, October of same year_

Quinn pulls his rental into the secluded driveway, and is certain that if he hadn't have given Eliot the exact make, model and license plate of his car, it wouldn't have made it past the mailbox. He takes a moment to appreciate the lines of the cabin, then grabs his bag and walks to the door. He knocks and waits until the door opens.

"So, did you find a new group yet?" Quinn asks as soon as Eliot appears in the doorway.

He is greeted with a sigh and dramatic eye roll.

"Every time, that's all I hear," Eliot says. "Maybe it's your turn to find a knitting group."

"I'm sorry," Quinn says. "Let me start over. Hello, Eliot, how are you? Yes I know you are so busy, but let me tell you about the three jobs I just—"

"All I hear is 'blah blah blah, my work is better than yours,'" Eliot says. "Get in here before all the heat escapes."

Quinn walks in, dropping his bag by the door, and lets the heat of the fire soak in.

"I didn't think the last group was so bad."

"They kept asking us when we were getting married," Eliot sighs.

"Not my fault you won't make me an honest man," Quinn says.

"Asshole."

Eliot grins at him then, and pulls him into a hug. They talk shop for a bit, Quinn telling Eliot about an old associate who had retired, and Eliot about the last con that had almost gone south.

"I found a group," Eliot says, "but I needed your impression of them."  
Quinn raises his eyebrows.

"You'll see when I take you tomorrow. They're….different. Very into natural stuff."

"Oh no not like the Fiber Freaks," Quinn moans. "If I heard a ten minute explanation on why commercially branded wool is bad, I was going to break someone's jaw."

"No. In a nice way. But I swear half the time when I show up, it's like they're using code around me. I don't know."

"Yeah, your knitting group is actually a group of secret agents, set to infiltrate the shady world of alpaca farming."

They both laugh.

**purl three, knit three, purl three**

_March_

"There is something wrong with this pattern," Quinn says to himself.

He's been working on the knit-a-long that Eliot emailed him from the Portland Purlers, their latest knitting group. Quinn thought they were nice, if a little distant. Eliot still insists there's something off about them, but has set it aside because Sandy, the group leader, was able to show him a really good stretchy bind off for the socks he was making Parker.

Quinn looks at the pattern again, and the actual product in his hands. It looks nothing like the picture, and he knows he's been following the pattern right. He puts the yarn down and looks at the pattern again.

"Why are there so many yarn overs? And there's no real repetition, and it looks like the next row beings a purl three knit three rib, but it stops—" Quinn stops muttering again and looks at the pattern. Something about row thirteen looks extremely familiar, almost like a code he's seen before."

He picks up the phone.

"I'm in the middle of a soufflé this better be good."

"It is," Quinn says. "Have you started the knit a long yet?"

"That's fucking important?"

"It will be in about five minutes."

"I did but I put it away because the pattern is shit. Why?"

"Get the pattern out."

"Quinn, what the—"

"Do it."

There's grumbling and rustling noises on the other end.

"Got it," Eliot says.

"Look at it again. Doesn't it look like code to you?"

"What?"

Quinn sighs. "Row thirteen. It looked awfully familiar, and I couldn't figure it out until I translated the knits to dots, the purls to dashes and the yarn overs to spaces. It's an old KGB code translated into Morse code."

There's silence on the other end for about five minutes, and Quinn can hear Eliot sounding out letters for a minute.

Eliot finally whistles, "If I'm reading this right, this is directions for a final meet up at the fiber festival. I should look at the past knit-a-longs, but we may have stumbled onto a terrorist cell."

"Yeah," Quinn says. "I've booked a flight already. Don't start the fight without me."

"As long as you remember," Eliot pauses and Quinn swears he can hear the grin on Eliot's face, "to stay conscious for this one."

Quinn ignores the taunt. "I'll be in Portland tomorrow."

**bind off**

Eliot throws a small wallet at Quinn.

"Okay, you are Agent Wheaton, FBI, and I'm your partner, Agent Ryan."

"FBI?" Quinn asks.

"Yeah," Eliot says, "long story short, we have someone inside who doesn't ask too many questions, and in return we throw him an occasional collar."

"You lead an odd life Spencer."

Eliot shrugs. He thinks about what Parker said when he filled her in on the knitting group. They've been thinking about adding another member to the crew: three was good, but sometimes it wasn't quite enough for some cons, and having another person that could handle a fight would be nice. He doesn't ask now, because they have a terrorist plot to break up.

"Anyway," Eliot says, "Parker's with our FBI guy, and Hardison is running tech from the can as usual."

Eliot ignores Hardison's protest from his earpiece. He pulls out a box and hands another to Quinn.

"Okay," Parker says in their ears, "Eliot's on Monica, Quinn's on Sandy. You are there for the yarn, but are hoping to locate the place they are storing the partial bomb."

"And all we have to do," Quinn says, "is pretend to be dumb rubes who can't even handle a three needle bind off. I don't get paid enough for this."

"It's not the pay that's the fun part," Hardison chimes in.

"It's their faces when they realize you really aren't a dumb rube," Eliot says.

"I happen to think the pay is very important," Parker says, "but that's later. Let's go steal a fiber festival."

**work in ends, and block lightly**  


Quinn leans against the van, watching the swarm of blue jackets leave the convention center that held the fiber festival. They had been right, watching Sandy and Monica's faces when he Eliot dropped the friendly rube knitter facades had been a lot of fun. As had been watching them look on as the parts of their bomb were paraded in front of them and catalogued, Eliot 'tsking' and muttering another trumped up charge.

"Eliot's going to take forever to ask you."

Quinn jumped, because Parker had appeared out of nowhere at his elbow.

"Do you always do that?"

She blinks at him, "Do what?"

Quinn shakes his head. "What is Eliot going to take forever to ask me?"

"We talked. The three of us. We're thinking of moving cities. Do you have any preference between Chicago and Cincinnati? Or maybe Miami?"

Quinn shakes his head again, because Parker is about three steps ahead of him.

"Why do I care?"

Parker sighs and folds her arms. "Because I'm recruiting you, silly. Now is there a city you think would be good?"

"Recruiting? Who says—"

"Hush. City."

"Chicago would be good for lots of crimes, but Cincinnati is a nice central location for Midwest-y things. Probably easier to hide in Chicago. Miami's too hot."

"Good. That's four votes for Chicago. Thanks," Parker smiles.

"Parker, I didn't even—"

She's already gone, her blond ponytail disappearing into the middle of a group of FBI agents. Quinn watches as she pushes Eliot his way, and shakes his head a third time. He has a feeling he's going to be doing that a lot.

"So apparently I've been recruited," Quinn says.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Eliot says. "She's a little direct, sometimes."

"Why me?"

Eliot tilts his head, shrugs. "Any number of reasons. We didn't want someone brand new, wanted someone we could trust or had trusted before. I argued for someone who could fight because I can't be in two places at once. Plus you are the most normal person I know, and we need that a lot."

"Thanks, I think?"

Eliot laughs and claps Quinn on the back. "You can still say no."

"No," Quinn says, "oddly enough, I don't want to. But I'm finding the next knitting group, and Hardison's doing background checks on them first."

"Deal."

They shake hands. Quinn looks back at the convention center.

"So I don't suppose I can get an 'I saved your life' discount on the silk yarn I saw earlier, can I?"


End file.
